Coveted
by Haleine Delail
Summary: When you're as beautiful, brilliant and good-hearted as is Martha Jones, it's hard to keep the suitors at bay! Four men, one woman, a bit of holistic medicine, some Merlot and a trip to Starbucks. In the race apres l'amour, who will be the winner?
1. First There Were Three

**Hi folks! First of all, yes, I am going to post the end of "Here and Now" in the next couple of days! Don't worry!**

**But I have something new I've been working on. Spring break is upon us (me), and my fertile mind cannot be quelled. And I can't be convinced to do my actual WORK, so, well... you see how I've been spending my time.**

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**This is a seven-part story, something that came to me inexplicably one day recently, and just wouldn't die. It takes place three months after "The Last of the Time Lords."**

**Fair warning, this story is pretty much total fluff! It's a ship fic, through and through. Mushy, analytical, dialoguey, with no smut and no science fiction. And alas, our dear Tenth Doctor isn't the most likeable guy throughout the story. Like his counterparts, he is rather smitten and uses his ridiculous intellect and powers of observation (and his truly uncanny ability to speak with a Scottish accent) to his advantage! But the Doctor unlikeable is when he is at his most compelling, wouldn't you say?**

**If you think, as I do, that Martha Jones is freaking amazing, then you will very likely find this story incredibly satisfying.**

**Thanks must go out to my friend Miggs, who helped me see the holes! :-)**

**And, as always, play fair: review!**

**Here we go...**

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FIRST THERE WERE THREE

"Dr. Heinrich Vogelsong, nearly everyone in-the-know can agree, is one of the great medical visionaries of our time. He is revolutionising the field by integrating holistic healing with the so-called _traditional_ milieu of Western medicine. He will be taking us on an adventure through..."

"Rubbish," Martha whispered.

"I know," her friend Emily sighed from beside her.

They were in their last remaining med-school seminar, requiring three hours per week of pure sit-time. Graduation was in three months, and Martha viewed this as something she had to _endure_ in order to get where she was going. Most days, she could just sigh and get through it. She was, she found, quite thankful for a simpler life.

Some days, it really tested her patience, though. And why shouldn't it? She had just spent a year travelling through time and space in a police box with probably the most interesting man in the universe, and another year saving the Earth. She had loved hard, lost even harder, been stranded in time (twice), met Shakespeare, been to the End of the Universe, and watched Japan burn. Not that she was looking to re-live much (if any) of it, but as far as excitement, this little "adventure" with Dr. Vogelsong wasn't going to cut it. Watching what amounted to a propaganda film for holistic medicine was more trying to her emotional and intellectual constitution than the usual seminar fodder.

"What are they thinking with this?" Martha asked, practically hissing at the screen.

"Did this guy _pay_ to have the university show the film? Is that even allowed?" Emily wondered.

"I'm sure he had to do some mighty manoeuvring to get a lecture on the premises tomorrow night. Some holistic bribes, perhaps."

At that moment, a _ping_ came from Emily's rucksack on the floor. She leaned down, in spite of the fact that mobile phones were strictly prohibited in this seminar, and extracted the device from the front pocket. She opened the display, and whispered, "It's George Perris."

"From Hippocratic Theory?" Martha asked. "Isn't he on your rotation?"

Now, _there_ was someone Martha hadn't thought about in a while. In the previous year (though, much longer ago for Martha), she and George, along with Emily, had had their Hippo class together. He had rather fancied Martha, and once upon a time, she might have thought that he was a worthy candidate... at least for a few fun nights out, if not a long-term, highly cerebral relationship. He was handsome in a swarthy Mediterranean sort of way, and was a very nice guy with a reputation for being quite the life of the party (and quite adept at darts, even when sloshed). But he had never had quite the brains of some of Martha's closer cohorts.

These days, George and Emily were both on the same internal medicines internship in Chelsea.

"What does he want?" Martha asked, though she wasn't actually terribly interested.

Emily giggled again, and this time happened to snort, which resounded awkwardly throughout the lecture hall. She and Martha both looked about nervously, as people pretended not to hear.

"He wants to know if you'll be at the Vogelsong lecture tomorrow night," Emily told her.

"Ugh," Martha groaned. "What choice do I have? It's part of the seminar isn't it?"

"Erm, yeah..."

"Wait, he wants to know if I'll be there?"

"Yes."

"His text actually says, _will Martha Jones be at the Vogelsong lecture_?"

"Yes!"

"He used my first and last name? George Perris did?"

"See for yourself," Emily sighed, shoving the phone at Martha.

Martha confirmed for herself that this was, indeed, the contents of the text message from the man in question.

"Well, what the hell does he want to know _that_ for?" she wondered, a bit more loudly than strictly appropriate in this venue.

"Why do you think, genius?" Emily asked, with a chuckle.

Martha's head snapped to the right. "No."

"Yes!" Emily protested. "Of course."

Martha sighed and sat back in her seat, cursing under her breath. Ten seconds ago, she had been thinking about how George Perris had fancied her, and was thinking on him fondly. Now, suddenly, he was becoming a nuisance.

"Can you just tell him no?" Martha asked.

"I could try," Emily offered. "But he knows you'll be there. He knows it's required."

"Then why is he asking?" Martha exclaimed, again, more loudly than necessary.

"Shh," warned her friend. "Probably just to get a read."

"Get a read?"

"Yeah, on whether he's got a shot with you."

"Well, tell him he hasn't."

"Hasn't he?"

"No!"

"What, didn't you used to fancy him?"

"No, not really. I just thought he was sort of cute."

"Well..."

"Besides, I'm seeing someone!"

Emily's jaw dropped. "Wha... well, when the hell did this start?"

"About a month ago," Martha said, with finality, crossing her arms and sitting back in her seat.

"Well, why didn't you tell me? Who is he?"

"It doesn't matter," Martha insisted. "I'll tell you later. For now, would you please tell George that I'm not available?"

"I can't do that. It would betray the fact that I know what he's up to," Emily said. "And it would imply that I've talked to you about him."

"Well you have!"

"Yeah, but you don't want to let the guy know that!"

"What?"

"Blimey, Martha, you'd think you hadn't played the game in years!"

Martha's face went stony. "Don't start with me, Emily."

"Seriously, though," Emily whined. "There are rules..."

"No, no rules, because there are no games. I'm not going to muck about with other people's affections," Martha protested, no longer amused in _any _way.

"Would the two of you shut up?" hissed the young man seated behind them. They had thought they were being discreet by whispering their exchange, but as these things tend to do, it had got out of hand.

"Sorry," Martha muttered.

Emily said nothing, but tucked into her phone, returning the text message.

Martha leaned over to see.

Emily leaned away, until the message had been sent. Then she turned the phone so Martha could read it. "_The lecture is required, isn't it?"_ she had texted.

Martha gave her a look.

"It's as non-committal as I get without being a bitch or making you sound like one," Emily proclaimed. "If you want him to know you're shagging someone else, you tell him yourself."

"I didn't say I was shagging someone else."

"Shh!" the young man behind them insisted.

* * *

As the seminar let out, without preamble, Emily demanded, "Okay, so who is this guy?"

Martha rolled her eyes.

If she was honest with herself, as she was in this moment, she could admit within her own mind that perhaps she had somewhat outgrown Emily. The two of them had been in the same preliminary classes at med school in their first semester, and had shared a flat for most of their second year. They had swapped a million stories about men, catty girlfriends and hangovers. But now... well, it wasn't Emily's fault. Circumstances being what they were, Martha actually felt she had outgrown medical school, the single life as she had known it, and frankly, almost everyone and everything she knew. She had seen and done so much in such a short (relative) period of time...

The possible lone exception, apart from her family, was Tom Milligan. He was one thing that was _new _since she'd come back from her trek across the cosmos. He was the one thing that wasn't a holdover from Life Before the Doctor. Unlike just about everything else she could think of, there had been nothing to come into her life and completely change her perspective of Tom, or to make him seem small.

Even though he had no idea about any of it, and might actually be surprised to find that he had any heroics in him at all, she had seen his true colours. It was a year that never was, in a dystopia that never existed, and she was thinking of acts of valour that he had never actually committed, decisions he was never really faced with. And yet, she _knew_, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that somewhere within that mild-mannered paediatrician, there was a warrior who would stick his neck out for his fellow man, and who would not think twice about dying for her. She had only ever seen that kind of full-on combative commitment from one other man...

She shook it away.

Or, at least, she tried to. Because in that direction, there lay a whole world of useless thinking.

"His name is Tom Milligan," Martha told her friend. "He's in paediatrics at London Bridge."

"Fantastic!" Emily chirped as they turned left and started down the stark-white corridor. "How did you meet?"

"In a sandwich shop across from Bridge Hospital," she said. She did not reveal that she had _intentionally_ gone there to meet him, after entering the hospital, losing her nerve, then following him across the road at lunch time.

"And it's been a month?"

"Thereabouts, yeah."

"Good kisser?"

Martha groaned inwardly. "Yeah, I suppose."

"But haven't got your kit off yet?"

"No, not yet," Martha said indulgently.

"Well, what are you waiting for? You know that there's no way to know whether you can truly move forward with a man until you've been there and done that!"

Martha shrugged, but the fact was that in spite of herself, she rather agreed with her friend.

She knew that Emily wasn't _just _talking about finding out whether a man could rattle a headboard loose from its frame, as a gauge for moving forward. There was a bit more to her than that. Emily had her own reasons for adhering to this credo.

Martha had hers as well. It was about seeing a man's behaviour in the heat of the moment. It was about his handling of insecurity and uncertainty, his level of consideration. It was about his treatment of others when all of his practised finesse gets stripped away. And also, it was about the fun, of course.

"When will you see him?" Emily wondered.

"Tonight."

They burst through a door out into a courtyard area, where students and professors milled about. They headed for the gate that would lead them out to the mean streets of London.

Before Emily could ask further questions, she seemed to bump into something. Namely, a fairly large man.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said quickly.

"No, it's my fault entirely," the man said.

Martha thought the voice sounded familiar, mostly because it was billowy and hollow all at the same time, and came with a lilting German accent. Before she could stop herself, she turned and looked at the man's face. The man noticed her at the same moment.

"Martha! Martha Jones!" he said.

"Professor Franks," she said, feeling a bit awkward. "Hello. What are you doing here?"

"I'm in town for Dr. Vogelsong's lecture," he told her. "Heinrich and I are old friends. This is the first time he's been in Britain in more than ten years!"

Professor Franks was about six-foot-two, fifty years old, maybe fifty-five, and quite broad across the shoulders. His facial features reminded Martha of the actor Sean Bean - rather prominent nose, rather thin mouth, rather thin, scruitinsing eyes. And though he wore the requisite brown tweed jacket with elbow patches, he wore his greying, sandy blond hair just a touch too long, and his facial hair just a tad too unshaven.

"Oh, really? Very interesting," Martha commented. "Er, Professor Franks, this is my friend Emily. Emily, this Dr. Pieter Franks, professor of microbiology and biochemistry at St. Andrews. He was my professor for two semesters at university."

Emily and Franks shook hands.

"How are you enjoying medical school?" he asked.

"Well, it's serving me well," Martha told him.

"Are either of you ladies in any of Professor Sobol's classes?" he wondered. "He is also a friend of mine."

"Well, it's not a class, but he runs a discussion group every Thursday afternoon," Emily told Franks.

"Really?" he asked, with genuine curiosity. "What sort of discussion group?"

"An Arabic-language group," Emily answered.

"Ah, yes," Franks commented. "There's a growing number of Arabic-speakers immigrating to the UK. A doctor in the twenty-first century would do well to be able to speak to them in their own language. A compassionate doctor, that is."

Emily nodded. "I took Arabic at uni - I am an intermediate speaker, but Sobol is fluent. About seven of us get together at a coffee shop and just practice. We talk about... whatever."

"What an excellent idea," Franks said with a smile. "Thursday. That's today."

"Yes, I'm headed there now."

"Well, tell Rolando - Professor Sobol - that I said hello," Franks requested.

"I will do," Emily promised.

"Ladies, I must run," Professor Franks said. "Emily, lovely meeting you. Martha, it was enchanting to see you again." He reached out for her hand, and Martha gave it, before she thought about what she was doing.

He didn't just shake it. He held it in his left hand for a moment, and stared at her meaningfully. Then he covered her hand with his right and averted his eyes, as if in sadness.

"Until later," he said.

"Yes," Martha replied uneasily.

With that, the Professor made his way toward the building that Martha and Emily had recently exited.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Emily asked, "What the hell was that? That holding-your-hand, until-later bit?"

They began to walk toward the gate once more.

"Ugh," Martha groaned, and then explained herself reluctantly. "Just before I graduated, he asked me to come to his office to discuss my final paper. I went, and we discussed it, but then he put it aside and..."

"What?" Emily asked bluntly. She stopped in her tracks and faced Martha with fire in her eyes. "What did he do?"

"Calm down, he didn't attack me or anything," Martha said, urging her friend through the gate, onto the street. "He just took my hand, like he did a minute ago, and did that thing where he stalls for a few minutes, telling me that he's wanted to say something to me for a long while. That I have so much talent and potential, and I'm so wonderful and beautiful and blah blah blah... and that if I would give him a chance, he would leave his wife to be with me."

"No way!" Emily exclaimed with a frown.

Martha nodded. "When I declined, he started talking about all the things he could offer me. Publishing support, research facilities, homes in St. Andrews, Hamburg and New York. Connections to the World Health Organisation, an 'in' with just about every major university in Europe, and a few in America. All of which is true, all of which is formidable..."

"But in exchange for sex?"

"Well, yeah, sort of. I like to think he was looking for more than that, but..."

"Ugh. Was this just out of the blue? After he'd been your prof for two semesters?"

"Yep," Martha said, rather sadly. "He'd been one of my favourites as well. Honestly, one of the best teachers I've ever had. I really looked up to him... like an uncle, you know? Then he goes and does _that_."

"Bit creepy."

"Yeah, I thought so. I had even thought about applying to med school at St. Andrews, so I could attend his biochemical engineering labs. And, I was thinking, if I'd got accepted there, of requesting him as a rotations liaison."

"Whoa, you _really_ liked him."

"_Admired_ him, yes," Martha corrected. "I still do, for his prowess as a scientist. God, it was so disappointing when he..." She sighed.

"Seems like he still carries a torch for you."

"If there ever was a _real_ torch. There was certainly a _real _midlife crisis." The thought of all of it made her feel incredibly uncomfortable, as well as sad. "And even if there was a torch, what would I be expected to do about it?"

"Touché," Emily conceded.

By now, they were at the corner.

"Is this where we part ways?" asked Martha.

"Yep," Emily said, gesturing to the right. "Sobol's group is meeting at that Starbucks a few blocks over. I'm going to try and get some work done before the others arrive. And you, my coveted friend..."

"Coveted?"

"Yes! You're headed home to get ready for a date, are you not? While two other men pine for your attentions! Have you forgotten about George Perris?"

Martha groaned. "Stop it."

"But George and the professor notwithstanding... is tonight the night?"

"What are you on about?"

"With what's his name... Tom! Tonight?"

"I don't know!" Martha protested, acting like a schoolgirl, and blushing so hard, she felt even her hair must have turned pink.

Because as it happened, Martha _had_ more or less decided that tonight _would_ be the night. She reckoned that after four weeks, it was time to find out whether to move forward with Tom Milligan, or at least begin the process of deciding. She just didn't want to tell Emily.

"Oh my God! Tonight _is_ the night, isn't it! You already know!"

"Shhh!" Martha scolded. "Lower your voice!"

"You vixen!"

"Goodbye," Martha said, mechanically, turning on her heel and heading the other way.

"I'm going to want details!" Emily called after her.

"Not bloody likely!"


	2. And Then There Were Four

**Let me know your thoughts, people! Enjoy and review!**

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AND THEN THERE WERE FOUR

A tall, thin man in a brown pin-striped suit and a tan trench coat entered a Starbucks in London. He moodily bought a Pellegrino and sat down with a newspaper.

He wasn't so much irritated about having had to banish a Podromass Parasite, invisible to the naked human eye, to a pocket of the universe where even black holes are afraid of getting lost. He was irritated about having had to do it alone.

And it wasn't so much that it had been difficult to do without a partner.

It's that it had been no fun without a partner.

He tried to concentrate on the _Times_ but his powers of focus were shot. He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and poked his tongue, annoyed, into the inside of his cheek. He let out a big, throaty sigh and watched with a scowl as the Business of Being English passed on the street outside.

Normally, he observed as an outsider and marvelled simultaneously at the mundane nature of it, and at how brilliant it all was. The work-a-day _humanness_ of it, the way people moved and _cared_ about things! Sometimes it drove him mad, and sometimes he wanted to shout _huzzah_ at it.

Today, he actually wished he could be part of it. How rubbish was that?

Because the truth was, he was lonely.

The period just after the departure of a companion always brought some turmoil with it, but this was the first time in recent memory that he knew beyond a doubt that _he_ had messed things up, just him, and that was the reason she had left.

And so, he was aimless. What to do? Besides sit in this chair at Starbucks for the rest of his life?

Fight something? He squirmed at the thought. With no backup, it wasn't just unfun, it could get dangerous.

Wander around the TARDIS for a few months? The idea of that made his soul feel like lead. He pictured himself being pulled to the floor in a flat, liquid heap of brown polyester, and possibly never moving again.

Find someone new? This made him feel dirty. Which he knew was just a little bonkers, but it honestly would feel like _cheating._ At least for now.

A companion's recent absence brought with it a fierce loyalty, and the odd wondering whether he'd ever find someone so brilliant ever again. And breathtakingly beautiful, and patient and loving and clever and poised and knowledgeable and intellectual and sexy...

Actually, a companion's recent absence had never before brought on this type of loyalty... but it was bringing it now. What was that about?

And what was all that about beautiful and wonderful and goddess-like, or whatever? And sexy? Really?

"Yeah, really," he said aloud.

He looked about self-consciously, but found that no-one had really noticed.

Well, it's not like it was entirely an epiphany. He had admitted to himself long ago that he hadn't just chosen Martha Jones because she was a good runner and had a cool head in a crisis. She had pitch dark eyes that had pulled him in from the first moment, and a flickering, crackling, mischievous, flirtatious smile that left so much to speculation. She looked as amazing as anyone he could think of in a pair of painted-on jeans, but she had a grace about her that said, "Of course I'm gorgeous, but it's hardly the point, now is it?"

And it wasn't. But it was. Both.

Because, as was true of just about any truly alluring woman, the most tantalising thing about her were the _possibilities_. The white lab coat had hidden so much of her, and after that, being on-guard all the time had hidden the rest. He had felt, for three explosive seconds, worlds of promise in one kiss, and juxtaposed against all that _concealing, _it was like a powder keg in the TARDIS... in a good way. And yet, for some reason, he had pushed it all away. If only he had more time.

More time? Blimey, he had a time machine! How much more time did he need?

But the universe doesn't work that way, and timelines cannot be crossed. There would be no easy second chances for him...

He literally tried to shake it off at that point, and sat up straight in his chair, popped his neck muscles and made a groaning noise that, this time, actually _did _make a couple of people take notice. He downed his Pellegrino in one go, and tried to force himself to read the paper. He resolved he was not going to leave until he had learned _something_ about current British pop culture, no matter how ridiculous. Even if he had to read the phrase "sex-tape" twenty-eight times.

After he'd been sitting for about ten minutes, a thin blonde woman sat down at the table beside him. She pulled a laptop from her bag, and switched it on, and plugged in a flash drive. She smiled at him, and opened her mouth to speak. For a horrible moment, he thought she might try to flirt with him, but all she said was, "I'm going to pop up the counter and get a lattè. Would you mind watching my things?"

"Oh," he said. "No. That's fine, go ahead."

"Great. Can I get you a biscuit or something?"

"No, thanks," he assured her with a slight smile.

As she walked away, the Doctor stole a look at her personal effects. The computer was a Samsung, relatively new but lived-in, and the flash drive was red, and had the words "Merck Manual" on it. A medical student.

This wasn't helping the melancholy.

After a few minutes, the blonde woman came back, thanked him, sat down with her coffee and started to work, no fuss no fanfare.

Just as the Doctor was miraculously finishing an article about the illustrious Kerry Katona, and actually feeling _dumber_ for having done so, he heard the blonde woman's voice pipe up.

"Professor Franks?"

"Hello, Emily," said a large man named, apparently, Professor Franks. The Doctor noticed that "Emily" seemed to surprised to see him, but the reverse was not exactly true.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, the meeting I had did not last as long as anticipated, and I decided to say hello to my friend Rolando - your professor Sobol." The Doctor noted the slight accent of a native German-speaker.

"Oh. How did you know where we'd be?"

"You mentioned you were on your way to Rolando's discussion group. When I realised I would have some extra time, I decided to text him. I speak a tiny bit of Arabic - I might be able to join in, if your group doesn't mind."

"Okay, well..." Emily said, clearly trying to wriggle clear of the conversation. "I have some..."

"May I join you?" he asked.

Emily was immediately uneasy. "Erm, sure. Why not? Any friend of Martha Jones should be a friend of mine."

The Doctor nearly choked on air at that moment. Fortunately, he coughed a couple of times, and managed to pretend that he was still engrossed in the news. He realised internally, _of course - the university is just down the street!_

"So, if you don't mind my asking, Emily," said the professor, after settling into a chair. "Are you attending the Vogelsong lecture tomorrow evening?"

"It is required for our three hours of weekly seminar," she answered flatly. "I guess the good news is, it leaves only two hours in the lecture hall."

"So, you're not a fan of Vogelsong's ideas, I take it."

"They're not _wrong, _per se," said Emily. "But truth be told, I'm not sure a Western medical school is the proper place for hawking his wares, as it were. And, the video he sends out is rubbish."

The professor laughed. "True enough. Perhaps the West is simply not ready. But rest assured, Dr. Vogelsong is a brilliant man."

"I'm sure he is," Emily said politely. "Maybe he just needs a better video-editing staff."

"Mmm, indeed. And is Martha in said seminar with you?"

"Yes," Emily said.

"Then I'll see her at the lecture," said Franks, rather absently. Then he seemed to remember himself and recover. "And you, of course. Lovely ladies."

The Doctor was not fooled. He heard the tone of the professor's _I'll see her there_, and the quick back-pedal. What was this character up to?

There was an awkward, hanging silence, and then the professor took a deep, quick breath and asked, "Emily, may I pose a question that is not related to medicine, or medical school, for that matter?"

"Sure," Emily said reluctantly.

"What is Martha's... _situation_?"

"Her situation?" she asked, her voice higher than normal.

Emily was playing dumb. Even the Doctor knew what the question was about, and he could tell from Emily's chirp that she knew too.

"Yes, her... _romantic_ situation?" said Franks. After a pause, he added, "I know it's quite personal, but... well, has Martha told you..."

"Yes, yes, she has," Emily said somewhat frantically, not anxious to hear a story rehashed. "She told me."

"How I pursued her?"

"Yes."

The professor sighed. "I'm afraid I made her uncomfortable."

"It happens... in situations like that sometimes."

"It was inappropriate of me," he confessed. "I was her instructor, and I was married."

Emily nodded, searching for something to say. She was unable to find anything.

"But now," the professor said, his face brightening. "I am neither. I _am_ still quite a bit older than she, but it is the twenty-first century. Who cares about such things these days?"

_Indeed,_ thought the Doctor.

"Well, I think you're out of luck. She's dating someone right now."

Again, the Doctor coughed in his surprise, though managed not to give away the fact that he was listening.

"Really? Who is he?"

"I'm not quite sure, I've never met him. I only even know his first name." From the way she trailed off at the end, the Doctor could tell that Emily regretted that last bit.

"Which is?" Franks wondered.

"Erm, Tom."

"Tom. Tom," Franks said, trying on the name for size. "Do you think that Martha could be... persuaded otherwise?"

"Persuaded otherwise? You mean stolen away from him?"

"Exactly."

"Oh, I don't know professor, I think it's fairly serious," Emily answered, practically squirming in her chair with the awkwardness. The Doctor noticed that Emily was cornered, literally and figuratively. She was sitting in a chair against a wall and a window, the professor's large body blocking her from exit. It was likely that Franks hadn't done it on purpose, but he wasn't about to back off to give her an exit either.

"Fairly serious, eh? How long has it been going on?"

"A month, maybe."

Franks laughed. "That's hardly enough time to get serious."

"That's for Martha and her beau to say. But professor, I do have reason to believe that it is serious, or will be very soon, so..."

It was clear to the Doctor that Emily was just trying to deflect the professor's attention from her friend. He did not know whether she was telling the truth about Martha in a new relationship. Come to that, he couldn't be entirely certain that she was talking about the same Martha Jones!

But something in his gut felt decidedly not-right. It was her - he knew it. He just knew.

"What reasons?" the professor asked, rather harshly.

"Professor Franks, I'm sorry, but I would not be at liberty to say," Emily said, evenly. "It was something personal, told to me today in confidence by a dear friend."

"I understand," Franks said, retreating. "I apologise, Emily. What happens in girl talk stays in girl talk, am I right?"

"Right you are, sir," she told him with a slight smile.

_Reason to believe that Martha and her beau were about to become quite serious._

_Told to me _today_ in confidence._

_Girl talk._

The Doctor could read between the lines, and he reckoned that Franks probably could, as well. In the way of romance, something was about to change for Martha, and he could guess what it was. He decided to assume that the addition of the word _today_ meant tonight.

Something sickly bubbled up inside. Upon examination, the Doctor realised: it was jealousy!

Again, he didn't know why he should be surprised, given the circumstances, given what had been going through his mind over the last few minutes.

Although, if he was honest, he'd been having those thoughts since she left three months ago.

Although, if he was _really_ honest, he'd been having those thoughts since they met, over two years ago.

"Well, Miss Emily, I think I'll be going," said professor Franks, getting suddenly to his feet.

"Oh. Okay. What about professor Sobol?" asked Emily.

"Please give him my regards, and tell him that I just realised, I had a prior appointment."

_My eye_, thought the Doctor._ You got the information you needed out of Emily, and now you're on your way. To scheme? To come up with a battle plan?_

_Only you won't just have her new beau to compete with. _

The Doctor realised with this thought that _he_ himself was, in fact, about to complicate Martha's life even further.

"Well, I suppose I'll see you tomorrow night, then," Emily sighed.

"You can bet on it," said Franks. "Especially if you are anywhere near our lovely Miss Jones. _Guten Abend._"

With that, the large professor stood up and left the Starbucks. Before he was even out of plain view, Emily was digging in her bag and dialling. Again, the Doctor could guess at whom she was phoning.

"Martha!" she practically shouted. "You'll never guess! Professor Franks just tracked me down at Starbucks and was asking if you'll be at the Vogelsong lecture tomorrow night!"

There was a pause, and then, "I know! That's two in the same day that want to know if you'll be there... oh seriously? Have you forgotten about poor old George Perris? Oh, this will be amazing! I'm looking forward to watching George and Professor Franks circle each other like caged tigers. You'll have some interesting things to contend with at that lecture. It's too bad you can't just build a Y-chromosome forcefield for the evening."

Another pause, then Emily said, "Well, he said he texted Professor Sobol to find out where the group was meeting, and when he first arrived he said he wanted to say hello to his old friend and maybe join the discussion group, but I think he was trying to find _me _so he could pick my brain about _you!"_ The Doctor was relieved that Emily had reaIised the professor's ruse.

"Anyway, I just wanted to warn you, because he said he's not married anymore, and seems fairly intent on stealing you away from Tom... yeah, I told him, I'm sorry. I got sort of put on the spot... are you two still going out tonight? Oh, staying in?" At this, Emily's face and tone brightened. "Well, I guess you'll find out if he's a good cook or not. FYI, this is _another_ good way of deciding whether to move forward in a relationship, along with, you know, that other thing. Oh, and if he cooks naked, you're golden - hang onto him _forever._" Emily laughed.

The Doctor's face grew hot, and he found his hands clutching the newspaper so hard, it was crumpling.

He had missed part of the discourse, but he heard Emily say, "I'd go with something South American, but only because I'm not that keen on French wines. Merlot _is_ the official wine of loosening-up for sex, but Argentine Malbec is my actual favourite, so it's your choice... they have some good ones at Alfred's Cellar, but that's across town from you. Although, if you're not due at his flat until eight... well, it's just a little after three now."

At that moment, the Doctor made a decision. It was a big endeavour, but he'd moved worlds in a lot less than five hours.


	3. Setting Up

**I have no idea how you folks will feel about this chapter, and the next one. I warned you at the beginning, the Doctor wasn't going to be the most likeable. But you know, if he's going up against Franks, he might have to play a bit dirty. **

**Although, Franks isn't the real problem, is he?**

**No matter how you feel, let me know! Reviews are love. 3**

* * *

SETTING UP

Martha shrugged her red leather jacket over her shoulders, and patted the pockets for keys. She found them on the right-hand side. She shoved her Oyster card and a couple of twenty-pound notes into the other pocket.

And then a noise filled the air. On the one hand, she wanted to swear and wonder what in God's name he wanted.

On the other hand, her heart leapt as it always had when she heard that sound. She looked outside.

Blue box. She sighed with a smile, in spite of herself, in spite of the turmoil...

She pulled open the front door, locked it, and marched across the street. She rapped on the TARDIS door with gusto.

The Doctor pulled it open and seemed to study her for a few short moments.

"Hi," he said flatly. "So much for being all dashing and surprising you at your front door."

"This clunky old blue box of yours is quite noisy," she reminded him.

He smiled widely, and as he did, she did as well. He bent and wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her up in an innocent hug. They both laughed with the impact, genuinely glad to see each other, though it had only been three months.

"What are you doing back? I thought for sure if I ever saw you again, it would be because there was some sort of world-ending disaster." Her face fell. "Oh, God. The world is ending, isn't it?"

"No," he said, with a smirk. "Just wanted to say hello."

"Okay," she said, sceptically. "Hello."

"Is that weird?"

"A tad."

"I swear, it's not. I just want to talk," he assured her.

"All right. Well, still a bit weird but... fancy a walk? I was headed out..."

"For an Argentine Malbec?" he asked, stepping out of the TARDIS and locking it behind him.

"Okay, getting weirder. How did you know?"

"Well, I have a confession to make," he said, as they began to walk abreast toward the corner.

"Yes?"

"Do you have a friend named Emily? A blonde?"

"Yes," she said cautiously.

"And perhaps a former professor who fancies you? Franks?"

"Yes," she said, equally cautiously. "Doctor, what's going on?"

"Did Emily just ring you to tell you that Franks had tracked her down at Starbucks and pumped her for information?"

"Yeah, she did. Seriously, Doctor, what's going on?"

"Nothing, just... I was there with them."

"What?" she shouted, stopping in her tracks.

He held his arms up in a _disarmed _stance, and insisted, "It was a coincidence, I swear. I was doing some... well, _pest control_, for lack of a better term, in the basement of this place that is now a very dodgy massage parlour. And before you ask, no, I didn't get any dodgy massages."

"I wasn't planning on asking," Martha said with a scowl, trying, in truth, to suppress a chuckle.

"The place used to be an all-to-real psychic den of some sort. And with all the otherworldly debris called in over the years, well, it was attracting this parasite, and I had to vanquish it...

"Anyway, I digress," he continued. "It was a rough go, and I was feeling out-of-sorts, so I decided not to come back to the TARDIS just yet, and I popped into a Starbucks just a couple blocks off, to sulk. And get my bearings. So, after about ten minutes, this woman sat down beside me and began to work. Eventually, a man with a German accent turned up, and they talked for a while, and said your name. It caught my ear. I couldn't help but eavesdrop. That's how I learned who they were."

She regarded him as they walked, her eyes brimming with a dark suspicion that made him almost wonder if it had been a good idea to come see her.

"Okay," she conceded, still staring at him carefully. "So what are you doing here? What have _you_ got to do with any of this?"

He had no idea what to say. So he shrugged. "Dunno. Just miss seeing you, I guess."

Martha accepted this, again, with caution, and they walked together in silence for about a minute. They entered a Tube station. They swiped their Oyster card and/or psychic paper, and went through the turnstile. As they made their way onto the escalator, the Doctor asked, in such a way that it completely disarmed Martha, "So, what's the deal with Professor Franks?"

"Well, he was one of my profs at St. Andrews," Martha said. "And right before I graduated, he tried to... you know."

"Seduce you?"

"Not quite. But hey, that puts things into perspective, doesn't it? No, he just gave me a passionate, but very well-thought-out list of reasons why I should fall for him."

"Well, he's not over it, you know that, right?"

"I suspected as much. Emily and I ran into him this afternoon. He gave off a vibe."

"And how do you feel about that?"

They reached the bottom of the escalator, and turned right. "I guess I sort of feel sorry for him, but... wait are you asking me if I'm interested in my old professor?"

"Just wondering."

"No, I'm not. Not at all," she told him, once again, looking at him sceptically.

They rounded the corner, and went through an archway onto the platform. From here, they waited for the Underground train to arrive.

"And what about... Tom, is it?" the Doctor said after having to genuinely screw up his courage. "Sorry, I heard Emily and the professor talking about you and him."

The scepticism had not left her eyes when she looked up at him. "Oh, I see. Is this why you came?"

"Maybe," he confessed.

"Afraid of his _intentions_, are you?" she mocked.

"Maybe," he repeated.

"Ugh," she said. "His name is Dr. Tom Milligan. He's in paediatrics at London Bridge Hospital."

"Is it serious?"

"Not so much," she said lightly. "But the day is young."

"So I've heard," he muttered. "How did you meet?"

She had been asked precisely this question only an hour or so earlier, by Emily. This time, she could tell the whole truth, however.

"Honestly?"

"Of course, honestly."

At that moment, the train began to slide into the station, so they paused their conversation. Minding the gap, they boarded the Tube.

"So... truth?" he asked, lightly, sitting beside her, folding his hands.

"Why are you so interested?" she laughed.

"I just am!" he told her with a smile, trying not to display too much intensity.

She took a deep breath and explained, in a hushed tone, "Well, after I'd spent a year walking across the planet, when I finally returned to Great Britain, his was the first face I saw. He was standing on the beach with a lantern, ushering me ashore."

"Ah," he said, realising that he had never really talked to her about that non-existent year. "So you met him in another world."

"That's when I met him. That's not when he met me."

"I see. Time travel is weird, isn't it?"

"Incredibly."

"And now that that world is gone, you see fit to be with him in this life. That must have been some lantern."

"Well, he had more than just a lantern. He also had one of the few unauthorised vehicles, still in working order, and he drove me where I needed to go. He took me to Professor Docherty (who was known to be somewhat dangerous, though she had her reasons), and when we decided we needed to dissect one of the spheres, he stood outside, all exposed, and fired his gun and let the spheres come after him. And all of the above meant that he was putting his life on the line for me," she said. She spoke as softly as she could, so that he could still hear.

"Mm," he mused. "Because he wanted to bring you into the fold?"

"Yeah. He lived with a group of... rebels, refugees, whatever you might call them... about a hundred of them packed into one flat in the city. There were little cells of people like that all over the world, waiting to be rescued. Waiting to hear what I had to say."

"So, he put his life on the line for _them_ too."

"Yep, on a regular basis. Except... we were discovered."

"How do you mean?"

She lowered her voice even further. "Professor Docherty sold us out, like I knew she would. The Master actually _came_ to the flat to find me. It was when he still thought I had that stupid Time Lord-killing gun. Tom stood guard at the door, until I made him let me out. And when the Master destroyed the gun, and it looked like he might destroy me as well, Tom came running out of the flat to help. I don't know what his plan was, exactly, but he got murdered for his trouble. The laser screwdriver itself took him down."

"Very valiant indeed."

"Do I hear a hint of judgement?" she asked, leaning away from him exaggeratedly, still smiling nonetheless.

"No, not at all," he assured her. "So what about in _this_ life?"

"I sought him out," she said. "I went to the hospital where he worked and contrived to meet him. Actually, I chickened out, and ended up following him across the street to a sandwich shop, and _then_ contrived to meet him."

"Because you were attracted to a dead man," the Doctor teased.

"Hey, that's nothing. I've been known to be attracted to men who aren't even human," she teased back. He smiled, just a little taken aback (and worried) over the fact that she could so easily joke about it now. "But I went looking for Tom because I knew that there was a man who was, fortunately, _very much alive_, and had real, tried-and-true valour in his soul. And, imagine this: _I knew he fancied me_! And because I'd got a second chance with someone who died for me."

"All right," he conceded. "I get it."

He let thirty seconds or so pass in silence, during which the train stopped, a group of people exited, and another group boarded.

"So how's it been?" he asked, a bit after they began moving again.

"It's been good," she said. "My mum and dad are..."

"No, I mean with Tom. How's it been?"

"Oh. That's been good too. He's got an amazing heart."

"Undoubtedly. What do the two of you like to do together?"

"You know, normal things," she said, shrugging.

"Normal?"

She chuckled. "Look who I'm talking to about _normal. _We've had some nice dinners. We've been to the cinema. We went to a football match last weekend."

"Sounds lovely."

"And we talk."

"About what?"

She sighed. "Doctor."

"I'm sorry. I don't want to pry. Tell me about your mum and dad."

"Are you all right?" she wondered, scrutinising him a bit. "Is there something bothering you?"

"Yes, but... just tell me, how are they adjusting?"

Martha sighed again, and then proceeded to catch the Doctor up on the latest state of affairs concerning the cautiously-reconciling Francine and Clive Jones. Still not living in the same house, but going to a couples' therapist and having decided to "see" each other, and no-one else. Their children remained hopeful but sceptical, and were doing everything they could to stay the hell out of it.

She reported that Tish was faring rather well, and even had a new job in PR, this time, with a small, up-and-coming company that had no massive funds, and therefore few "connections." It was Lazarus' ties to "Harold Saxon" and his endorsements and grant money that had got her into trouble before... at least that was how Tish saw it. Well, no more. From now on, it would be from the ground, up.

The Doctor listened with genuine interest, glad to know that the Jones family were not too much worse for wear, after the horrible, harrowing year he had put them through. For his part, he talked a little bit about his adventure on the starship _Titanic_, and recounted a couple of trouble-shooting stories from the outer-reaches of the universe.

When they reached their stop, they disembarked and made their way up to street-level in silence. Martha pointed to a wine shop on the other side of the street, indicating that they needed to cross. It was called Alfred's Cellar, the shop where Emily had told Martha to go.


	4. Knocking Down

**As I pointed out to a friend, the Doctor must walk a fine line here. Franks is a certifiable sleazoid, Tom is a super-nice guy, and George is basically an unknown quantity. He has to take them all down, in a way that will not ultimately alienate Martha. So how does he play it? If he goes too dirty, Tom will get absolutely steamrolled and the Doctor will look like an ass. If he goes too nice, Franks will eat everyone alive. If he goes all mushy and fake, Martha will see through it. **

**So, he's gotta get smart and be straightforward. And in this chapter, we see him do just that, as he starts to get inside Martha's head. But, it's Martha, so he's got to play fair!**

**As always, please review, and let me know your thoughts! :-)**

* * *

KNOCKING DOWN

They crossed the road, and entered the surprisingly large wine shop. "Let's see..." Martha muttered, looking up at the signage. "Merlot."

One of the Doctor's hearts leapt into his throat.

Martha spotted what she wanted, and headed toward a corner at the back of the shop. She scanned her eyes over approximately twenty-five different selections of Merlot, at varying prices.

"Merlot? Really?" the Doctor asked. "Wouldn't you rather a nice Prosecco? Or even, say, grapefruit juice?"

She looked at him sideways, with yet more suspicion in her eyes.

"What?" he asked.

"You heard what Emily said about Merlot, didn't you?"

The Doctor sighed, but did not confirm yea or nay.

"Ugh," she groaned walking away from the Merlot. She stomped halfway down a nearby aisle, before shuddering a bit. "Now I feel all icky."

"Icky? Why?"

"Because!" she shouted. At that, several patrons looked up in alarm, before going back to browsing. "I can't have you knowing about this stuff! You're the Doctor, don't you know that?"

"Actually, it had occurred to me, yeah," he said, uneasily.

"It's just wrong," she insisted, storming away. She walked through the front door, and out of the shop. She turned and went past the display windows, to where the Doctor could no longer see her.

He cursed, and followed her out the door. He was relieved to find her standing with her back to the brick wall, sulking, rather than trying to flee. He took his spot beside her, leaning, folding his arms in exactly the way hers were folded.

"Why is it wrong?" he asked.

"It just is," she said. "Doctor, there was a reason I left you. A very, very good reason."

"I know."

"Two years of wishing you would notice... actually, I spent one of those years with my life constantly hanging in the balance, saving your bloody skin, and that of the rest of the world, too," she pointed out. "And I _finally_ decide to move on. I _finally_ find someone who is right for me, and you turn up, today of all days, and you know all about the Merlot, and... ugh! It's just not right. You don't get to do this, Doctor! Not anymore."

"Today of all days?"

"Yeah," she spat. "Today. Tonight. Tonight was the night for Merlot. Is, I mean. But you already knew that, didn't you? Because of your skulking, and your infernal bloody cleverness."

"I did know," he admitted. "Emily's half of the phone conversation left little to the imagination, frankly."

"Yeah, well," Martha growled, not looking at him. "What I don't get, Doctor, is what the hell you're doing here! Why are we even talking about this? What the hell business is it of yours?"

Once again, he sighed. "Okay, Martha, just hear me out..."

"About what?"

"About Tom."

"About Tom? Seriously? Why should I?"

"Because I..." he stopped, not wanting to say too much.

"Are you going to tell me you've checked him out and he's bad news? Is he an alien overlord or something? Because I've met alien overlords, and I can take them. They don't scare me. Hit me with your best shot, Doctor."

"I swear, I know absolutely nothing about Tom except what I have learned from you," he said. "Even Emily didn't say anything much more than his name. But I want to talk about him because I'm your friend, all right?"

"Because you're my friend?" she asked, sceptically, finally turning her head to look at him.

"Because I care about you, and you've just told me that you think you've got someone who is right for you, and... it concerns me."

"Why's that, then?"

"So you're hearing me out?"

"Apparently, I am," she answered, bitterly, annoyed at herself. "Because why _wouldn't_ I hang on your every word, eh?"

He took a deep breath, stood up straight, and asked, "You were really going to have... _Merlot_ with him tonight?"

A mixture of emotions overtook Martha at that moment, most of them related to anger and vulnerability. "Yes. And let's not talk about it in the past-hypothetical-tense, okay?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm still planning on it, you dolt!" she shouted.

"No," he scolded. "I mean... why the Merlot? Why tonight?"

Grudgingly, she said, "It's been a month. I want to know if it's worth moving forward in the relationship or not."

"So it's a checkpoint?"

"More or less."

"And Merlot will tell you what you need to know?"

"It can tell you a lot more than just..." she gestured with her hands as if to say, _you know._

"Like what?"

She thought for a moment, measuring her words. Then she went into the explanation she had already given herself, the not-invalid reasons why she felt that this was the next step for her and Tom. "Like, what a person is like under pressure. When faced with uncertainty, insecurity, how does he do? Is he generous when it counts? How does he actually treat me when all the veneer gets stripped away, and what's left is something primal."

The Doctor nodded. "That is lofty, and reasonable," he commented.

"Thank you."

"But you already know that stuff."

"What?"

"You have already seen Tom in the worst of situations. You know that he will rise to the occasion, so to speak. You know he will treat you as gold, as someone worth sacrificing for, if and when the chips go down. You already know that he's fantastic under pressure, and will give himself to you even when primal fear, or presumably primal desire, is driving him. He may not even know those things about himself, necessarily, but you already do."

"Yes."

"So why bother with the sex?"

"Excuse me?"

"If you already know those things, then why?"

She didn't know how to respond. She had been telling herself that tonight would be all about whether or not to move forward, and that could be accomplished by finding out the answers to those lofty and reasonable questions. Yet, she knew the answers to those questions.

"Maybe, there doesn't have to be a _why_," she mused. "Maybe it's just because..."

"...there's a visceral pull. You _really, really _want to, like, with your whole body."

"Doctor."

"You do, don't you?"

"How can you even ask me that? That's terrible!"

"I don't hear you saying _yes_."

"Because it's private!"

"Well, you said you'd hear me out, and you know what? We're already down the rabbit hole here, Martha. I think Private hippity-hopped out into traffic a while back. I'll go away right now, and leave you alone, if that's what you want. But it doesn't make _the question_ go away."

She pouted. "I'm not sure I even understand the question."

"Okay, so, you say he's got a great heart. He's got bravery, valour to spare. This is what made you seek him out in this life. It's why you're with him."

"Yes."

"And you go to dinner. You go to the cinema. You go to football matches. You talk."

"Yeah..."

"About what?"

"What normal people talk about," she snapped with irritation. "We talk about doctorly stuff. Current events. Our school days. Our families."

"When you're talking, do you make each other laugh?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

"Like, until it hurts?"

"Well..." she stopped.

He gave her time to think. But after a longer-than-was-comfortable pause, he asked, "No?"

She looked at him with exasperation.

"All month long, not even one really good rib laugh?" he wondered. "Either one of you?"

She remained silent.

He continued, "When you're talking, do you find him genuinely _interesting_? Does he have ideas and stories that you're desperate to hear?"

"Well..."

"Does he seem to just _devour_ the stories you tell? Is he dying to hear about your childhood? Your rotations? Your thoughts on global warming?"

"I don't know."

"He doesn't ever just probe and probe and probe, until you're tired of talking about yourself?"

"Not that I can remember..."

"When he tells you about himself and his life, does it provoke a million new questions?"

"Usually not, but..."

"Do you ever just snog until you're absolutely panting?"

"Doctor!"

"Well, do you? As you've been thinking about this Merlot, have you shivered, just seeing him in your mind's eye? His eyes, his neck? What it's going to feel like when he touches you for the first time?"

"That is enough," she growled.

"I'm sorry, but I have still not heard a yes. All these questions... no affirmatives. Only fillers, anger and silence. You can tell me I'm wrong. I will drop this right now, if you tell me I'm wrong."

But much to her own exasperation, he wasn't wrong. She stared at him with fury in her eyes, but she did not comment.

"And so," he went on. "It begs the question, what are you really looking for in the Merlot? A spark? A piece of hope that will make you want to hang onto him, with something other than your mind, your memories, your knowledge? Because unless you tell me otherwise, I have heard nothing that tells me that your _heart_ really wants this... or at the moment, anything else below the neck."

She fumed.

"But, you know, honestly," he went on, shrugging. "Who am I to say? There's probably nothing wrong with looking for that spark."

"Sometimes it actually _is_ how you find out if you want to move forward. I want to find out if it... _gels. _Even if most of what I've been telling myself doesn't stand up to reason... "

"But it shouldn't be about _reason, _Martha. You should want to do this for reasons other than _reason_."

"Well, maybe it's all I have right now! What would you have me do? Just _never_ sleep with the man I'm seeing?"

"No." He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. He took a few moments to breathe, take a few steps away, and then come back. "Okay, I guess what I'm saying is this: you're telling me this is a checkpoint, a moment in the relationship where you take stock and decide whether or not to carry on. From my point of view, at least, there are a lot of those checkpoints in a relationship, especially early-on. But, it seems like sex is at least number four or five down the list and, I'm frankly not sure how Tom got past the first few."

"He's a good man!"

"Established. But what else?"

Martha opened her mouth to speak, but again, stopped short. All month long with Tom, she had been telling herself that she was with him because of the heart-warming acts of bravery and self-sacrifice she had seen him perform during The Year That Never Was. And until now, it was good enough for her, just knowing what he was capable of.

But likely, if life went the way life usually does, the way most regular people _hoped_ life would go, she would never see those acts of valour again. They were reserved for a certain time and place that were no more. All that was left was real life. The everyday.

And in the everyday, there was genuine kindness, which was important, but no great acts of valour; she and Tom did normal things, talked about normal things. He wasn't unfunny, but didn't particularly make her laugh out loud. He had a few good stories to tell, but his life experiences, turns of phrase and insights weren't hugely unique or any more thought-provoking than anyone else she had met. And he was quite good-looking, and his kisses were sweet, but he didn't get her blood boiling, exactly.

Valour, laughs, fascination, passion. Only one man had ever had all of those things, in her eyes.

And in the last five minutes, _that man_ had deconstructed what she had previously thought was quite a sound argument, and had effectively talked her out of the last month of her life. Why, exactly?

She could have told him to shut up and leave her alone, but she hadn't. Why, exactly?

She knew the answer to both of those _whys._ Instinctively, she knew. Why else would the Doctor be here? He wouldn't just randomly screw with her mind; he must have an agenda.

"Did you come and find me just to destroy my relationship?" she asked, harshly, though she knew it wasn't the case.

"No, I came to fight. Maybe I should have done a long time ago, but... better late than never." He shoved his hands in his pockets coolly, waiting for her to react.

"Are you fighting fairly?"

"I believe I am," he told her seriously, without flinching. "But I suppose there's always room for debate."

But she couldn't deny it: he had told no lies, and had not forced her to say or do anything. He had investigated first, and then sussed out the truth. It's what he _did_.

She looked him over, from the rubber tips of his Converse all the way up to the dark spikes of his hair.

"Oh my God," she mused. "I think I hate you right now."

He looked back at her with a mixture of trepidation and apology in his eyes, and asked, "So what would I have to do to get you to cancel your dinner plans?"


	5. Intermezzo

**I am thoroughly enjoying the reviews on this story! Please, please keep them coming!**

**This is a very short chapter, but I like to think of it as a "bridge" from the wine shop to the lecture. And for the record, I really love the last line of the chapter... even if I do say so myself. ;-)**

**In light of the chapter's shortness, I will try and post again ASAP!**

* * *

INTERMEZZO

A high-pitched tinkling sound dragged Martha Jones unwillingly out of her slumber, at six-forty-two the following morning.

She groaned, cursed, looked at the caller display, flipped open the phone and said, "Hi. What do you want?"

"Jolly good morning to you, too," chirped Emily. "So, how was it?"

"How was what?" Martha croaked, attempting, and failing, to keep her eyes open.

"I'm going to choose to take your grogginess as a good sign. An at-it-all-night sign, perhaps?"

A fog lifted quite suddenly, and Martha felt much more awake.

"Nothing nearly so..." Martha attempted.

"So, are you still at Tom's flat or have you already gone home?"

"I'm home, Emily. Things last night did not go as planned."

"No!" Emily whined. "What happened?"

Martha scooted back in her bed so she could lean against the headboard. "Well, it's a long story."

"I've got an entire Tube ride across town, including a transfer. I've got time. Headed out now. Go."

"Okay, er, a man who is, for lack of a better word, an _old flame_, sort of reappeared yesterday."

"Oh," Emily said, genuinely surprised. "Who? Do I know him?"

"Well, funny story. When you were at Starbucks yesterday, talking to Professor Franks, did you notice a man sitting nearby... tall, good-looking, wearing a pin-striped suit?

"With those Converse trainers?" asked Emily. "The thin bloke, with the spiky hair and the long coat?"

"That's him."

"_That's _him?" Emily asked, incredulous. "I asked him to watch my stuff while I went up to the counter!"

"Fantastic. You're lucky he didn't commandeer your laptop for intergalactic warfare while you were getting your cappuccino." She assumed Emily would interpret it as a joke.

"_He's_ an old flame?" Emily asked.

"Well, not exactly, but I can't just call him an old friend either... again, _old flame _is only for lack of a better word," Martha told her. "It's hard to explain."

"So, you just blew off Tom?"

"No, I rang him and asked if I could beg off for the evening, and promised to ring again to explain myself in a few days," Martha told her.

"So, you just blew off Tom."

"Well, what should I have done? I was shaken! Shaken, _and _stirred. You don't understand this man, Emily. Not only is he, _ridiculously_ clever and charismatic - like almost _supernatural_ in that respect... but there's a history there, and a lot of past. Most of it has never been properly discussed! I just didn't know what I wanted to do next."

Emily sighed. "Yeah, I guess I get that." She paused, then, "Blimey, who is this guy? How could there be a so-called _old flame _(for lack of a better word) in your life who was - or is - important enough to sway you from the guy you're currently dating, and I don't know about him?"

"Emily, you don't know everything there is to know about me, as it happens! And I don't know how many more ways I can say it: long story, hard to explain, et cetera. There is more story than you have time for on the Tube, believe me."

"You could have at least clued him in," Emily said. "Tom, I mean. Tell him the basics so he doesn't spend the whole evening wondering what he did wrong."

"I guess," Martha mused. "I guess I should have seen that. Oh, God, why didn't I see that?"

"I don't know," Emily said. "You just keep telling me it's hard to explain."

"I just needed some time and space," she said, before she could stop herself. It was a chillingly poignant remark.

"Time and space to think about whom you will choose?"

"Maybe."

"Really? Because it seems to me that if you were willing to cancel dinner-and-a-shag with a guy you actually like, in favour of ambiguity and drama, which is not like you, then you've already made up your mind."

Martha pursed her lips, and felt like throwing the phone at the wall.

She had allowed herself to be selfish and inconsiderate... and hadn't even realised it.

She hadn't wanted to explain the situation to Tom because she knew that it would ruin everything. Even if he miraculously understood her very complicated feelings, and decided to wait around for her to make her choice, he would likely never feel exactly the same way about her again. She hadn't been quite ready to let him go yet.

But when the Doctor had illustrated that what she really deserved was someone with a hero's soul, _as well as_ someone who could make her laugh with her gut, excite her intellectually and make her knees weak physically, then looked at her with _those _eyes and asked her not to spend the night with Tom...

She'd been pretty sure he hadn't put himself through all that for his health. And he had known bloody good and well what would happen... that is, he'd known that she'd never be able just to say _no._ The man who had died nine times, and was still up and kicking, would always expect at least a second chance, and he knew he would get it from her. And indeed, he achieved the dinner cancellation, under the condition that he would not phone her for at least twenty-four hours.

"Martha? Are you still there?" asked Emily.

"Yeah, I'm still here. But you know what? I have to go, Emily. I'll see you at the Vogelsong lecture, okay?"

"Okay," Emily said, with questioning in her voice. "Keep me updated?"

"Sure."

"Okay," Emily repeated. "But wai..."

Martha did hear Emily try to get her back, but it was too late - she had cut off the call, and Martha was not willing to wade back in.

She opened her phone again, and dialled.

A voice mail message answered. When it finished speaking, she said, "Tom, hi, it's Martha. Look, I'm sorry about last night. Really, really sorry. And there's something you need to know: you didn't do anything to cause this. An old friend tracked me down, and some things happened, and I... well, I just wasn't able to see you. I know it sounds dodgy... and it is, a little bit. It's complicated. I want to explain, but obviously not in a phone message. I can't meet up with you tonight because I have to go to this holistic medicines lecture at the university, but I was wondering if you'd be able to meet for a drink tomorrow night? Do you know the Wolf and Hen? I'm assuming you do, since it's basically your neighbourhood. And how about this: unless you tell me otherwise, I'll see you there at five o'clock, okay? Ring me up if you can't make it. All right, then... see you."

* * *

Martha ran late that evening for the lecture because her brother had rung with some sort of emergency, and she had been asked to babysit her niece for part of the afternoon. She enjoyed doing that, but she had been obliged to bolt out the door as soon as Leo arrived to collect his daughter. She'd got lucky with the Underground, which was uncrowded and running on-schedule, and she'd had a fighting chance of signing in on-time. But, just before reaching the university, the Doctor rang her mobile.

To be fair, it had been twenty-_six_ hours since last they had spoken. He had held up that part of the bargain.

"Can I see you tonight?" he asked.

"I don't know, Doctor," she said, her tone as unsure as her words.

"You still don't know, eh?" the Doctor said, sounding crestfallen.

"As it happens... no. But in any case, I'm supposed to talk with Tom tomorrow, and I just don't think it would be right to see you again until I do."

"Okay, fair enough," he sighed.

"What are you sighing over? Can't you just hop forward to tomorrow night? Aren't you that guy I know who has a time machine?"

"Meh, it's risky," he told her. "Anyway, why aren't you seeing him tonight? Sorry... none of my business."

"It's mostly because I have a lecture to go to at the university, and in fact, Doctor, I'm there now, and it's already started. I've got to let you go."

"Is this the Vogelsong lecture?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?" she said. "From Emily and Franks? Never mind, I'll talk to you later."

"Damn it. Wait, Martha?"

"What?"

He took a deep breath, and spat out, "Okay... here it is. I'm not perfect. And if I do something that seems a bit, shall we say, _boundary-questionable_, well, it's because I'm slightly mad, I may have some impulse-control issues, and I'm a little bit of a zealot. And please remember that on a good day, you find all of those things endearing. Also, and I can't stress this enough: I care about you a whole lot. Okay?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but for a moment, nothing came out. Then she settled for, "Okay, I have _not_ got the time to stand here and find out what the hell that means. I'm missing a required lecture."

"I understand."

"Just you behave, have you got that?"


	6. Four, Three, Two

**Okay folks, here we go. Or, as Professor Franks might say, _Dann los!_ Or as the Doctor might say, _Allons-y!_**

**The word of the day is finesse. Oh, and blackmail. ;-)**

* * *

FOUR, THREE, TWO...

Martha had signed in, then entered the lecture a few minutes late, obliging her to stand against the wall in the back of the room.

Dr. Heinrich Vogelsong was, as Martha had suspected, charismatic and a good speaker, and that was about it. What he had to say was nothing substantial, nothing new, and nothing that warranted a second look. At least, not to her way of thinking. All in all, she really could have done without this little slice of life.

When the crowd was up and dispersing, she managed to spot Emily. As some of the facility managers began to pick up and stack the chairs, she made her way through and between, towards her friend.

"Well, there's an hour of my existence that I will never get back," Emily sighed.

"Me, I maximised my time," Martha joked. "I was planning a trip to Aruba in my head, all the while."

"If I were you, I'd have been working on a strategy."

"A strategy for what?"

"My God, you're dense sometimes!" Emily laughed. "And bloody forgetful for a woman who is hoping to hold people's very lives in her hands! I tried to get your attention about it this morning to remind you, but you cut me off."

"Oh, right," Martha said, realisation sinking into her stomach. "The professor and George."

"Mm-hm," said Emily, glancing over Martha's shoulder. "And speaking of..."

Martha turned around and spied George Perris crossing the room toward her. When he made eye-contact, he waved, and smiled brightly. Martha returned the gestures politely, but muttered under her breath. "Oh, God, this is the last thing I need right now."

"Oh! Professor Franks, three o'clock!" Emily told her.

Martha turned to her right, and there was Professor Franks, just now saying goodbye to some friends, and training his gaze on her. He smiled subtly at her, in a way that made her blood run cold.

"You've got to be kidding me," Martha whined.

Emily laughed. "I wish I'd brought popcorn!"

Martha rounded on her friend, to scold her for the astounding lack of regard she was showing for a friend's chagrin and uninvited drama. But she was halted, as behind Emily, Tom Milligan was advancing forward. He was holding a small brown paper shopping bag in one hand, and waving at her with the other. The worried look on his face made her heart sink.

"Shit," Martha hissed.

"What?"

"Tom!"

"Seriously?" Emily asked, craning her neck round to see, though she wasn't sure in which direction to look. Then, she seemed to see something else. She started laughing, and pointed in the fourth direction. "They're coming from all sides! I'm sorry, but this is just hilarious."

Martha looked where Emily had indicated, and there was the Doctor. She gritted her teeth and scowled hard at him. She lifted her arms up in a "What the hell are you doing" shrug, and for a split second, she saw the apology in his eyes, before being interrupted.

"Martha," she heard, coming from Tom's direction.

At the sound of her name, she turned, looking at him desperately. In a tizzy, she turned toward George. She turned toward the professor, and panic began to rise. She looked at the Doctor again, and her hands now came up to her temples, and she thought she might burst. None of the four men seemed to notice any of the other three men, except...

The Doctor. He saw. He stopped moving and took a step back, and just watched.

George reached her first. "Martha, hello! It's been a long time!"

"Yes, it has."

"Did you enjoy the lecture?"

"Erm..." she replied. "Well, to be honest..."

And then she felt a hand fall lightly on her shoulder. She couldn't see him, but she recognised Tom's cologne.

George's eyes immediately shifted upward, seeing Tom. "Hi."

"Hi," Tom said. "Sorry, don't let me interrupt."

"No, erm, we were just... talking," George vamped, wearing now a very false smile.

Martha wanted to scream, throw off all shackles, and stomp out of the room, never to return. But she did not.

Instead, she very politely said, "George Perris, this is Tom Milligan. Tom, this is George. George is one of my classmates, and Tom and I have been dating. For about a month."

Something in the way she said it sounded flat and meaningless, even to her. She hadn't meant for it to come out that way, it just _had._ And even now, she was thinking about how this incredibly civil tactic would not work with Professor Franks. And she had _no _idea what to do about the Doctor, or even how to explain his existence to anyone involved.

George said, "Oh, okay. I guess I misread the situation." He put his hands up at shoulder-level and backed away. "It was nice seeing you again, Martha. Text me sometime, if you feel like it."

He looked so disappointed, Martha felt momentarily guilty, until she realized that three more formidable players were still in the game. Though one of them seemed to be remaining at a watchful standstill.

Emily grabbed George and pulled him aside, and offered some undoubtedly well-meaning, placating words. Martha thought Emily should tell him he ought to be glad to be free of this particular circus. She had the feeling that of everyone involved, George was destined to escape the most unscathed.

"Good evening, Martha," said Professor Franks, sauntering up, looking smug, having seen young George slink off to the sidelines. "And you must be the illustrious Tom. I am Professor Pieter Franks of St. Andrews University. This is how Martha and I know one another." The professor stuck out his hand, and looked Dr. Milligan genially in the eyes.

Tom had no idea what he was in for, of course, and he shook the professor's hand, with a smile.

"So what do you do, then, Tom?" asked Franks.

"I'm a paediatrician."

"Oh, very nice," declared Franks with a falsely gracious air. "Very _anodyne_."

"Well, first do no harm, right?" Tom quipped. He was still trying to smile, but with eyes betraying confusion at the remark. He looked at askance at Martha, but her mouth and brain had gone completely dry.

"How long have you been doing that?"

"About five years."

"Surgical or general?"

"Mostly general, but I assist and consult with surgeries, of course."

"Where do you work?"

"London Bridge Hospital," Tom answered, with a bit more discomfort. "Unless you're willing to give me another job... am I interviewing for one?"

"No, forgive me, I'm just curious," Franks told him. "Bridge Hospital, eh? Well, they do have _some_ biomedical engineering, as do all hospitals, but... well, what stands out for me about Bridge is the neighbourhood. It's a nice neighbourhood. A safe neighbourhood, is it not?"

"Well, I don't get shot-at on a daily basis," Tom retorted. "And the children I see aren't generally wanting for food or medicine."

Martha desperately wanted to end this conversation, put the professor in his place and take Tom away to talk, but she was frozen.

In life-and-death peril, she had managed to find the words forceful enough to convince a spaceship crew to dump their fuel. She had persuaded a frightened and mild-mannered school teacher to sacrifice his life so that a Time Lord could save the world from destruction. With her words, she had convinced _the entire planet_ to think one thought at an appointed moment...

And yet, now, in a hail of raging, errant testosterone, she was at a total loss for something to say. Her mouth would not work, nor, for that matter, would her rational mind.

"Where did you do your rotations, Tom?" the professor probed even further.

"Er, right here in London." Tom clasped his hands in front of him, and leaned back on his heels, realising he was in for an awkward conversation, one way or the other. His surrender was for the sake of Martha.

"I see, I see. You know, it's funny, Tom. Recently, I was at a meet-and-greet with some students at my home-school, St. Andrews, some up-and-coming, would-be doctors. A remarkable number of them are choosing to intern overseas, in developing countries, where, say, Ebola is rampant. Or where Malaria can't just be treated with an oral dose of Artemisinin. There's a lot of good to be done there..."

Tom's smile grew wider, as he became certain that he was being undermined for some reason. "Well, is there something wrong with maintaining the good health of children right here at home?"

"Oh, absolutely nothing," Franks told him, condescendingly, as though he were speaking to a little boy. "Just talking a bit of shop, though it's true, technically, I'm not a medical doctor. My doctorates are in microbiology, biochemistry, and bio-medical engineering."

"I see."

Franks put on an show of matter-of-fact-ness, a just-thought-you-might-like-to-know attitude. "You know, when I was your age, my field of battle was on two continents, including volunteer work in the inner city of New York. It's interesting you should mention being shot-at, because I, as it happens, I have been shot-at." Franks chuckled at the memory.

"Well," Tom said, now noticeably making an effort to remain friendly, though his tone was clearly sarcastic. "I'm quite sure that getting shot-at made you a better microbiologist, biochemist and bio-medical engineer. Perhaps if I had that experience it would make me a more knowledgeable paediatrician."

"Oh, I'm being misunderstood again. I've never been very good at making small talk, I'm afraid. These are the facts, this is all I'm saying. Take them and do with them as you will. No right, no wrong... just different." The smirk on Franks' face made Martha want to kick him in the teeth.

But instead, she breathed "Oh my God," and could say nothing else. She was starting to find her voice again, and willed her brain to work faster. But as things stood, she had no idea how to intervene without causing a scene. She had no concise _choice words _for the professor.

Tom's voice rose a pitch or two, and he actually took half a step forward, even as Martha pressed her hand against his chest to try and quell him. "You know, Professor, I'm getting the sense that..."

"Professor Franks?" a voice interrupted. All conversation came to a halt as everyone's eyes went to a man in a pin-striped suit who had just engaged the professor's attention.

"Yes?" said the confused German, squinting at the oddly familiar stranger before him.

"I thought that was you," the Doctor said, now for some reason, putting on a Scottish accent. He offered his hand for the professor to shake. "You may not remember me but I'm Dr. James McCrimmon."

"I regret, I don't recall meeting you," answered Franks, but he looked hard at the Doctor's face as he shook his hand, recognising something therein. "I was just speaking to some friends here, so..."

"Oh, sorry, hello," the Doctor nodded to Martha and Tom. "If you'll allow me to converse with your friend, I swear I won't be a minute. I'm incredibly sorry to interrupt your little confab."

"By all means," Tom said, with some relief.

The Doctor said to Franks with a big smile, "I've been trying to get hold of you for a couple of weeks - fancy running into you _here_!"

"Yes, fancy that," Franks said, annoyed.

The Doctor turned to Martha and Tom and said, "His office and mine are literally one block apart, up at St. Andrews in Scotland, and yet, to get a word in with this man, I have to come all the way to London and bump into him at a lecture, of all things!"

Tom chuckled, having reverted to _friendly_ form. "Life has a funny way."

"It really, really does," Martha agreed, watching the Doctor intently.

"What is it I can help you with, Dr. McCrimmon?" asked Franks, growing even more annoyed.

"Well, you see, I'm on the ethics committee at the university."

"The ethics committee?"

"Yes, indeed. And, as you probably know, one of our charter members recently was forced to drop out - you know, the scandal with the rice cakes, and the Portuguese Water Dog. Ugly business, that."

"Erm, no, I had not heard..." Professor Franks confessed, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"We've been looking for a replacement, and thought that you might be interested. Of course, you are just the sort we're looking for," the Doctor told him. "We need someone with a vast array of worldly experiences..."

At this, Martha coughed to stifle a laugh. Part of it was at the very Scottish way in which the Doctor said _worldly_. Most of it was about the snarky puffing-up of Franks' ego.

"...someone like that, like you, could bring so much to the table, where ethics are concerned, wouldn't you say, Professor Franks?"

"Yes. Yes, I think I should have a lot to offer."

"And you know, of course, that serving on the committee would be a big feather in your cap, should you decide to apply for tenure in the next few years."

"Yes, I suppose it would," Franks nodded, his demeanour having lightened.

"You _are_ planning on applying for tenure?"

"Well of course," Franks chuckled. "Professor Canvere's position is coming up soon, as he is retiring."

"Indeed," said the Doctor. "And every university professor dreams of having tenure, does he not? Especially one with connections such as yours. What good is a career in higher education, and a web of contacts across the world if you don't have tenure to show for it? It's like having no anchor, no home."

"You make excellent points, Dr. McCrimmon."

"Well, then, it is settled," the Doctor said. "When we return to St. Andrews, you'll give me a ring, and we'll begin the process of having you appointed."

"Absolutely," Franks agreed. Then, after a pregnant pause, a bell seemed to ring in his mind, and Franks added, "I'm sorry, but didn't I see you at Starbucks yesterday?"

"Perhaps you did," the Doctor said, leaning back on his heels, stuffing his hands in his pocket. He looked the professor squarely in the eye, daring him to ask questions about what he had heard. "But it's a big city. Starbucks is a busy place."

"Yes, it is."

The Doctor took a step forward to speak conspiratorially with Professor Franks. "Oh, I should probably mention, though it goes without saying, that anyone applying to serve on the ethics committee should see to it that his goings-on are _beyond reproach_. Ethically speaking, that is." With this comment, the Doctor, slid his eyes to the right, to indicate Martha. "Any tiny breach in university code could be potentially harmful. Even if most of said incidents are _past tense._"

Professor Franks' cheeks burned red. "I see," he growled.

"I'm very glad to hear that, because I'd hate to see a good man derailed because of some kind of misunderstanding," the Doctor said, readopting his congenial air, covering up any evidence that he knew anything. This left the professor to wonder whether he had actually seen someone from the ethics committee imply that he knew about Franks' past pursuits.

The professor looked at the other three, rather wide-eyed, as if coming-to.

"Miss Jones, it was a pleasure to see you again. Dr. Milligan, nice meeting you."

"Yeah, likewise," Tom responded, again confused.

"Will you excuse me please?" Professor Franks asked, softly.

"Of course," Martha said.

The professor walked away, not quite with his head hanging, but not with the usual gale-force with which he usually moved. He spoke to no-one, ignoring those who requested a moment of his time. He left the room directly.

The Doctor turned to Martha and Tom and smiled warmly. Still keeping up the accent, he said, bowing slightly, "Nice to have met you both. Have a pleasant evening."

With that, he walked away, without looking back.


	7. Australia

**This is the final chapter! I hope you don't feel it came too abruptly. **

**The Doctor had said he wanted to fight, but we also discussed earlier how he's got to walk a fine line... be nice to Tom, be an ass to Franks and not alienate Martha, who is the reason he wanted to do all of this in the first place. His version of a "showdown," as it turned out, was taking out the bad guy with words, as usual, and leaving Martha to decide what to do about the two good guys.**

**And still, as you will see, all is not necessarily right with the world... yet. As benign as you may have found his actions, Martha has her own perspective! Thank you, Miggs, for implanting the idea that the Doctor needs to _squirm!_**

**Thank you for staying with me on this... this was a really fun one for me! The reviews made me squee! KEEP THEM COMING!**

* * *

**To the "anonymous" reader who had some "Britpicks" for me... thanks! I do not live in a city in which the public transport goes underground. I have visited London, Paris and New York, but I'm not a big cell phone user while I'm on vacation, so the idea that the connection doesn't work underground hadn't really occurred to me. I'm sure it's not just your network! **

**Universities in the U.S. do have massive lecture halls that will seat hundreds, as well. However, I attended a psychology lecture of this sort when I was a student, which was held after-hours in an atrium in the new social sciences building because the space was large, airy (as opposed to stifling as lecture halls can be, at least where I attended) and the ambience was nicer! I was picturing that while I was writing. I suppose I should have mentioned this in the narrative.**

**As far as gun crime... if you'll look closely, you'll see that Professor Franks told Tom that he'd been shot-at in New York. Gun crime in the U.S., as you must know, is not negligible! (Just ask my Facebook feed!)**

* * *

AUSTRALIA

The Doctor parked the TARDIS in the appointed location, at the appointed time.

He waited not five minutes before a lovely young woman in a red leather jacket entered, carrying a small brown paper shopping bag. The Doctor recognised it as the one Tom had been carrying earlier.

"And in spite of it all," she said, without a _hello._ "I'm still very glad for my university education."

"I should think so," he responded. "Professor Franks notwithstanding."

"It gives me perspective."

"Mission accomplished, then."

"People say that a university education can't give you street smarts, and is mostly theoretical, lacks practicality. That is, unless and until you have hands-on experience within your specialisation."

"Right..."

"But I beg to differ. In some cases, my education allows me to know how to react to things in my personal life," she said, looking him in the eye, smiling rather loosely. This, for some reason, made him very uneasy.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Case in point in a course I took at St. Andrews, a course, by the way, that was _not_ taught by Professor Franks, we learned about Classical Game Theory. In it, one assumes that one's adversary is as intelligent and rational, and has an equal amount of knowledge to oneself. This allows one to... take one's _best shot_, as it were, in good conscience. These are the rules of engagement. It's based on the basic human need to _gain._"

"You learned correctly," he said to her, leaning coolly on the console, crooking one leg over the other and crossing his arms.

"And yet," she said, stopping at the top of the ramp, staring at him with a not-unpleasant earnestness. "That was not your best shot."

"Really? You don't think so? 'Cause I thought it was pretty amazing, myself."

"Doctor."

He took a pause, and a big breath, and said, "Okay, well, the much lesser-known, but no-less-important, Not-Being-An-Arsehole Game Theory, states that when one can clearly see that a sheep has been thrown blindfolded into a lion's cage, one probably should come to the gate with the key, rather than more lions to add. The sheep, by the way, was Tom, not you."

Sceptically, she asked, "That is the rule of not being an arsehole? Are you sure you aren't just expecting me to overlook everything because you have impulse control issues? Remember the disclaimer about how you're all adorable and insane?"

"I swear it _is_ a rule. Though, it is only one rule of the many. Clearly, I don't know all of them, or you and I would not be having this discussion at all. Honestly, if I knew them all, there would be no Tom, because we would have worked all of this out months ago. And you never would have had to leave me."

"I'm glad you're starting to see it my way," she said, clearly with more words still pending. "But things being as they are... what if the sheep is really a competent fighter, and needs only have the blindfold taken away? Because I've seen him fight. Oh wait, I forgot... that part of him isn't good enough."

The Doctor sighed. "Come on, Martha. The guy walked in there blind, and unarmed. A paediatrician. _Not_ a man who has been hardened by a year under a despotic ruler in a semi-apocalyptic dystopia. He had _no idea_ when he entered that room that he'd have to contend with what Franks threw at him. Or with what I might have thrown at him, if I were a bigger prat than I am. He thought he was just bringing you a gift, and, at worst, maybe dealing with a new girlfriend, who is having second thoughts," the Doctor paused for effect, and walked to his left toward the railing and stopped. "Franks, he actually is a lion, when you get down to rubbish like this. He's been clawing and gnashing his way through university politics for a quarter century or more, and has developed more than a few aggressive rhetoric techniques in the process. Knowing what you know, having seen what you saw, do you honestly think Tom Milligan has a mean streak hard enough, sharp enough, to even scrape the surface of Professor Franks? To slow him down, finding a thousand things about Tom that are arbitrarily inadequate and exploit them right in front of you?"

"Wow. Speaking of aggressive rhetoric..."

"Just be glad I use my powers for good and not for evil." He flashed an eyebrow at her, and she found that it could still make her stomach flutter. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, given the circumstances.

"Doctor, I thought you said you wanted to _fight._"

"I do, yeah," the Doctor sighed. "But the situation was escalating, and I could see you starting to panic a little. And one of the other rules of Not-Being-An-Arsehole Game Theory is, when someone you love is in pain, you step in. Even if it means she isn't very happy with you later on."

"I see," she said meekly, staring at the floor. For the moment, he had silenced her. He had said the "L" word, and she had no idea how to respond. Moreover, he was right. She _had_ been totally paralysed when Tome and Franks had gone toe-to-toe, and it was about to get ugly. She wouldn't realistically have been able to lift a finger to stop it.

"What's in the bag?" he asked, figuring it might be good to switch gears.

"It's from Tom," she said, lifting it up slightly. "It's the crab meat cannelloni he made for our dinner date last night, which, as you know, got cancelled."

"Oh, blimey," the Doctor winced. "Now I want to date him myself."

"I know," she sighed. "It's appallingly thoughtful. You want to hear something even worse?"

"Okay," he said, squinting, bracing.

"He said I should share it with you."

"With me? Why me?"

"He said it was prepared with love," she said. "And _someone_ ought to enjoy it with me, even if it's not him."

"Really? He said that?"

"Yep."

"About me?"

She nodded.

"Because you told him..." he began, pointing to himself.

"Yes, Doctor."

"Wow. After tonight, I honestly didn't think..."

"He suggested we have it with a nice Merlot, wasn't that a lovely thing to say?"

The Doctor chuckled. "Indeed."

"That was just before he kissed me on the forehead and wished me good luck, with a little catch in his throat."

"Ugh. I deserve _pain_ for this one," he groaned.

"Yes, you do. But so do I."

"Okay, that's it," the Doctor said loudly after a pause. "You can't be here. Go back to him. Go back now, and stay. This is too much - it's breaking my hearts, Martha, both of them." He was pointing at the door with gusto, and a face that said _do it_.

She didn't respond, she just looked at him flatly, with tedium.

"What are you just standing there for? If you don't go, I will!" he threatened.

"You will?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, there's one fairly glaring error in your plan..." she said with a chuckle.

"Yeah, well, I'm a good kisser, I can make it work," he threatened. "Give me that bag!"

"Interesting thought. _You_ go be with Tom, and I'll fly about in time and space, on my own for a bit."

"I have half a mind to do it," he said, actually gently taking the bag from her. He set it down on the console with reverence.

"Me too," she mused, averting her eyes, and moving around the console, stroking it with her fingertips.

"Uh-oh."

"Well, what do you expect? You _boys_ are just more trouble than you're worth!" she half-shouted, half-whined. "Except George. God bless him for bowing out with some dignity."

"Actually, to be fair..."

"Shush, you. This is my moment for righteous indignation, after being treated like a trophy."

"Wow. I'm sorry." He swallowed hard and crossed his arms over his chest.

She began to pace. "Honestly, if I thought I could, I would just pack up and move to Australia and start over, and no-one would win! Except maybe Australia."

The Doctor smiled, but she didn't see him.

"A very serious part of me wishes I could just be rid of the lot of you. Become a nun. Go live in Siberia with the wolves," she stopped pacing and stood with her hands on her hips and looked him over. "Even standing here looking at you, which normally I quite enjoy... yeah, I wish I could just bugger off. I would say, to a different planet, but you'd be the one guy I know who could actually find me there, so, why bother?"

"So why don't you?"

"Bugger off?"

"Yeah, only... nicer."

"Do you seriously not know?"

"Well, I mean, there really is nothing that says you have to be with one of the four of us. Or anyone at all. I will go away and leave you be, if that's what you want. You _could_ start all over, with nothing encumbering you. So what's stopping you?"

She groaned, exhausted, exasperated, emotionally wrought. "_I love you_, don't you know that?"

He inhaled sharply, then whispered, "Yeah."

"But here's the problem: I'm _really_ pissed off."

"I'd noticed."

"Good. Because this may be irreparable."

"Irreparable? Seriously?"

"I'm going to need some time to get over this, Doctor, because right now, I just want to pick up one of those sledgehammers hanging there, and hit you with it."

"Understood. When do I get to see you?"

She shrugged big. "I don't know when, if ever."

"If ever?" he asked, eyes wide.

"I must re-iterate, Doctor: I am not a trophy."

"I know that."

"Are you sure that you didn't just want me because someone else had me? And because it suddenly seemed like I didn't want you anymore?"

"That is _not_ why."

"I wish I could be sure," she said. Then she stuck out one hip, and crossed her arms. "Plus, you know how, in court, sometimes when evidence is obtained illegally, it cannot be used to convict?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you listening in on Emily and Professor Franks? That was evidence obtained illegally!"

"Now, hold on..."

"I know, I know, it was a coincidence that you happened to be in the same coffee shop at the same time," she dismissed. "But it was still _not okay _for you to eavesdrop and then use what you heard to sabotage a perfectly happy, if boring, relationship!"

He crossed his arms again, and grumbled, "Fair enough."

"That boring relationship would have run its course eventually," she assured him. "And what do _you_ care how long it takes? You're nine hundred years old, _and _you have a time machine!"

He refrained from reminding her that it doesn't really work that way, and simply nodded.

"And showing up at that lecture tonight was way on the outside," she continued. "What did you call it? _Boundary- questionable?_ Very cute, mate, but it still doesn't make it all right! And you can't tell me you came just to head off Franks at the pass. You came there to..."

"Fight."

"Right. As if I can't make my own decisions."

"No..."

"Look, we could hash this out all night," she sighed. "But right now, suffice it to say, it is very tempting to walk out of here and let no one win this one. Except me. And maybe, as I said, Australia."

She did not sound as if she was joking, and she did not crack a smile. The Doctor's stomach turned.

"So, why did you come back here? Just to tell me you love me, but I don't get to win?" he asked.

"Partly," she shrugged.

"Because that's the worst. Really, Martha, it would be easier to believe that I just never had a shot."

"Yeah, but you'd never believe that. You know me too well."

"Why else did you come, then?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I guess I just wanted to see how I'd feel when I saw you."

"And you don't feel good."

"I don't. Not at the moment."

"What, am I not contrite enough?"

"That's not the point," she told him, though she felt it kind of _was._

"Then what about Tom? If you weren't sure about me, then why not hang on to him? He's a safe bet. He clearly cares about you. He came to that lecture too, to fight, after a fashion."

"Because, damn you, you made me realise that I can't just settle for the safe bet! I need someone funny and interesting and sexy... _of course_ it would be just my luck that it all comes in a package shaped like a guy who also thinks he owns the universe."

"I don't think I own the universe."

"Metaphorically."

"So what do I do now?"

"Just leave me alone for a while," she said, heading toward the door. "Don't call me, I'll call you."

"Are you really thinking... _if ever_?"

"I just don't know. Are you not willing to wait?"

"I am willing. And able. Just... well, silly me for asking for a bit of reassurance from someone who claims to love me," he said, bitterly.

"Well, I can't give it to you," she told him.

"Okay," he sighed, reluctantly accepting what she was saying. "I guess I'll stop talking before I dig a bigger hole, and earn myself more probation time."

"A very wise choice."

"Can I at least kiss you goodbye?"

"No," she said, smiling subtly. Then she started back up the ramp. "I'll kiss you."

She stood on tiptoe and curled one hand around his jaw, and pulled his head down gently. She planted a chaste kiss on his lips, lasting about five seconds. At some point in that interval, the Doctor placed his hand on her waist, but when she pulled away, he let her.

She walked back down the ramp, and looked back at him with an expression that was impossible to read. Hello or goodbye?

"See you soon, I hope," he said.

And she waved, walking out of the TARDIS...

...knowing full well she'd give it a at least a good seven days before ringing him. But it would be hard to wait.

**THE END**


End file.
